We went through the crooked roads of Kingston and out through Surbiton towards Ditton, when, after a long silence, she exclaimed as she bent towards me:
“Tell me, George, have you ever heard the name of Gori, and if so, in what connection? I ask this in confidence between ourselves, as the outcome may mean much to both of us.”
“I don’t quite understand you, Madame,” was my polite reply. “I only wish your husband had asked that question.”
“Look here,” she said in a low, tense voice, “you love Lola! I know you do. Then will you, for her sake, reply to me openly and frankly? Have you in these past few days met a bald-headed Italian named Luigi Gori? And in what circumstances?”
I remained silent for some minutes. Then I said:
“I have met a man named Gori. He called upon Rudolph.”
“When?” she gasped.
“He called on Monday night.”
Madame Duperré held her breath for a few moments. She seemed to be calculating.
“I recognize certain grave probabilities in Gori’s visit,” she said, and then lapsed again into silence.